The first of the waves formed a nice, fat curl as it hit. It slapped the side of the boat loudly and raised it several inches in a brisk lurch away from the dock. The deck and side rails were already soaked and slippery. Inkman and both his men had to clutch frantically at anything possible to maintain their balance. Markman, expecting the roll, handled it. At the moment of greatest turbulence, he spun right, whipping a right-hand back fist around, and catching the gunman's hand perfectly with his knuckles. Bone crunched and popped and the long-barreled weapon, heavy from its silencer, flew into the air. It made a ticking bounce off the low sidewall and splashed into the black water between the boat and dock.
For one split second, all four men froze in a moment of rocking, fearful assessment. Then the second wave hit.
Markman's thoughts went to the Glock, stuffed into the back of his belt. He slapped for it with his right hand, but not in time. The two off-balance bodyguards had not been intimidated. The one holding the tape flung it wildly at Markman's face and charged. The heavy roll caught Markman in the side of the head in a glancing blow. As the heavyset thug charged, Markman spun sideways like a bullfighter and grabbed the front of the man's trench coat. He pulled him head first into the bulkhead next to the open hatchway. The second bodyguard lurched at Markman, leading with a right fist aimed for the face. Markman tilted his head sideways in time to avoid it. A quick left hook followed and was intercepted by Markman's open hands. The third punch was an off-balanced slap, again from the left. It burned into the side of Markman's face but left the attacker vulnerable. Markman caught the outstretched arm just above the elbow and twisted his body sideways, throwing the heavyset man directly into his partner, who was in the process of getting back up. The impact knocked him back, but not down. He caught the frame of the hatchway with his left hand and used it to push into a dive. His right arm hooked out and caught Markman around the waist. He let out a yell as they plummeted into a pile on the wet deck and slid along it.
The hulky bodyguard ended up sprawled on top of Markman. Instinctively, Markman brought his hands wide apart and clapped hard at the man's ears, sending him rolling and howling in pain, clutching at his head. Markman regained his feet in unison with the man's partner, both of them facing the open hatchway that led below deck. Markman jerked sideways hoping to grab his opponent's face and sweep his feet from under him. There was the unexpected feel of a cold plug on the back of Markman's neck. A fraction of an instant later pain exploded through his head and down his spine. The dim lights around the dock area collapsed into a blanket of blackness, and a piercing ringing blared in his ears. His body shut down completely, leaving him to fall through the open door and down into the galley below. He crashed roughly into the hexagon table and briefcase and brought them down with him as he smashed onto his side on the thinly carpeted floor. Markman's body felt like jelly. The internal sirens continued. In the center of the numb blackness, a small spot of light appeared and stayed there. There was movement within it, light and dark, light and dark, over and over. The beam slowly widened until a pendulum of shadow could be seen swinging in the tunnel of light.
All at once it focused. Wires. Red and black. His tunnel vision grew still larger. The briefcase, lying open on its side, its explosive and associated electronics fully exposed. The Plexiglas had not been installed, and the swinging pendulum turned out to be the wires and connector of the countdown timer, swaying back and forth without a nine-volt battery attached. Markman felt the carpet against the right side of his face. His mouth was partially open and drooling, and he was not able to close it. Though the ringing in his head continued, he could hear the sounds of his adversaries coming back to life under the harsh, rebuking voice of Inkman. His left hand began to tingle. It was hanging behind his back. He moved his fingers slightly. They worked. The red and black wires continued to swing back and forth only inches away from his sagging face. The connector seemed so familiar and meaningful. He struggled to focus his mind. A stun gun. It must have been that.
His left elbow began to work, enough that he could pull his arm over to the front and his hand up to his tingling face. The connector continued to insist it deserved a place in his shocked mind. The connector was identical to another that he had recently seen. What was it? The proximity detector handed out by Rogers's people. It had the same connector. Simmons had said it could be used as a battery. It was in the breast pocket of his jacket. He worked his good hand slowly to the little slip of inside pocket and found the battery-sized proximity detector half-fallen out. Not understanding perfectly why he struggled and moved the tiny detector over to the red and black wires and somehow snapped it in place.
Inkman's irate tone broke through the ringing. "Get the briefcase you fools, and get his gun before he comes to and it starts all over again. You incompetent idiots."
A boot crashed down onto Markman's left shoulder bringing it painfully back to life. Rough hands tore at the back of his jacket and the bulge of the Glock suddenly disappeared. The panorama of the open briefcase was snapped up out of view. Markman moved the fingers of his right hand. It was wrenched under him.
"Now get him up here and secure him before either he or I dispose of both of you."
Markman was roughly jerked from the floor and dragged up the three steps to the open air deck. They stood him up and held him there, as the feeling began to return to his legs and feet. The cold, damp air tickled his face. Inkman was twisting at the base of his cane, disabling the stun prod built into the end of it. The distressed face of the bodyguard who had lost his gun came into Markman’s close view. He grabbed the front of Markman’s throat and supported him with it. Markman’s arms came quickly back to life and clutched instinctively at the man’s dirty wet wrists.
“Now like we said before, asshole, put your hands in your pockets.”
Strength was returning to his legs. Markman released his hold and complied with the demand. He slowly lowered his arms, and as his right hand slid down into the deep pocket of Cassiopia’s baggy brown pants, a pleasant little bell went off somewhere deep in the back of his foggy mind.
Markman’s fingers had touched the cushioned covering of the Cobra double-barreled derringer.
Nearby there was the ripping sound of tape being pulled from the fat silver roll. A moment later, it was wrapped around him like a belt, covering his arms and hips. The smaller of the two men hugged Markman from behind and continued to wind until the tape covered everything from waist to shoulders. They dropped down and resumed wrapping at the thighs, pulling Markman’s legs together and covering them to the knee. It left him crouched over and precariously balanced. The big man released his throat grip and backed away.
“Make sure you deposit him so that he will not be found, and be sure no one sees you,” commanded Inkman. “You’ll excuse my having to run, Mr. Julian. My associates are waiting for me. It will be a new day.”
Inkman stepped onto the pier, carrying the black briefcase loosely in his right hand. He looked quickly around to be sure they were still alone and then climbed into the open cruiser on the other side. Markman called to him in a hoarse, broken voice.
“There’s an old Tibetan saying, Inkman: ‘Zamen dai li women donqxi zamen pa zui’. It means: That which we fear most, we carry with us.”
“Your dreary little philosophies will do you no good now, Mr. Julian. You are alive only because it would be helpful to us to know what you know. My men here will persuasively extract what we want and then drop you off somewhere convenient. I doubt we will be seeing one another again, a prospect I must admit I find something of a relief. May your next future be more promising than your present one.”
Inkman twisted the ignition of the low-riding cruiser, and the dual inboards roared to life. He cast off the single mooring line and without looking back throttled away from the dock and headed in the direction of the colored lights from the distant motor yacht.
Markman teetered in front of the open hatchway, wrapped like a mummy from knees to shoulders in wet, si
lver tape. He remained hunched over and had to bend at the knees to maintain his balance. His eyes glazed, he scratched at the derringer with his fingers, trying not to call attention to the awkward motion it required. The safety was set. Finding it would be the first obstacle to overcome, and his wrists were so tightly taped that was proving to be a challenge.
The heavyset bodyguard became overconfident. As Inkman disappeared into the darkness, he growled orders at his partner. “Go below and get the stuff out of the refrigerator. Set it up and bring it here.”
The man nodded agreeably and ducked past Markman into the galley.
“That was real cute, you playin’ us into the wake and all,” he said, turning to Markman. He grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into the bridge wall next to the galley way. “Well, your ass is mine now, mister.”
The derringer slipped back out of position. Spikes of pain shot through Markman’s back as he worked to regain a hold on the elusive little weapon. Before he could work his fingers around the handle, the second man returned from the galley. To Markman’s dismay, he carried a loaded syringe.
“Give it to ‘em right through the tape. It don’t matter none.”
Without preparation, the syringe was stabbed through the duct tape and into Markman’s left arm. Its contents emptied so fast it burned.
“Okay, toss off the ropes. I’ll back us out.”
The syringe was casually thrown over the side. A few minutes later the engine was rumbling, and the cabin cruiser was pulling away from the pier. Markman began to feel light-headed as he leaned against the sidewall for support and continued to work awkwardly at the small gun in his right pocket.
A white water trail formed as the engines were brought up to speed, and the nose of the craft came about to a heading where no lights marked the distance. Amid the roar of the engine and the churning of white water, the shoreline and dock area quickly faded away and became a faint row of lights in the light rain. Markman’s fingers found the exaggerated curve of the gun’s hammer. He captured the hardened grip and fumbled at the safety with his thumb. A feeling of well-being began to seep into his consciousness, the feeling that no matter what happened, everything was okay. The rainy night was beautiful. The hum of the boat’s powerful engine and the white wake it left behind were splendid. The cold drip of rainwater suspended on the tip of his nose seemed like an exquisite, finely cut work of art. In slow motion, it danced, swirled and glistened as it fell to the deck. Markman’s body hummed with pleasure. What a wonderful evening this was. He held the full weight of the derringer ready in his right hand and tipped it up as far as the soaked trousers and tape would allow. A placid half-smile began to form on his dripping face, causing the bodyguard watching over him to wonder.
When an area of deep water had been reached, the engine was idled back, and the nose of the big boat dropped gently down to the water. She was allowed to drift forward in her momentum, through a wall of lifting fog. It was a place of darkness. Far on the horizon, the faded city lights had lost their color. Traffic noise had become an almost subliminal hum in the air. A chilling breeze passed in frequent, measured gusts, rippling the black water on the windward side of the boat.
The heavier of the two hit men clamored down the short aluminum ladder that accessed the raised bridge and came up in front of a passively-smiling Markman. He grabbed him rudely by the left shoulder and dragged him aft, sitting him centered on the transom, the open, black water to his back. He turned to his waiting associate and spoke with a sick little tinge of excitement in his voice. “Get that little mushroom anchor we use for the skiff and bring it here with the tape.”
Markman’s half-smile had grown into a smirk by the time the requested items were brought to the back of the boat and dropped on the deck. His favorite tune was playing loudly in his head. The friendly, big-boned man stooped down and began to tape the eighteen-inch pot metal anchor to his lower legs. When it was done, the man rose and thumped his captured prey on the shoulder with the heel of one hand. With the drug in full effect, Markman continued to smile, as he swayed slightly to and fro.
“Okay, wise guy. This is how it works. I ask, you answer. No answer, you go over backward into the drink on a one-way trip down. Sonar puts it at over one hundred feet here. You’ll have a lot of time to think on the way down. You got it?”
Adrenaline surged in Markman. He gazed sluggishly up at his captor with a half-serious look but lost control the instant their eyes met. He spit out a long, involuntary laugh that sprayed the man in the face. The man backed away cursing and wiped the offended area with the wet sleeve of his trench coat.
“Ha, ha, he’s gonna die in a minute, but he can’t stop laughin’. Ain’t that a good one, Frank?”
“Shut up, you asshole. What the hell’s goin’ on?” The disgruntled man returned to Markman and with his left hand peeled the right eyelid back to get a better look at the iris. “You understand, mister, that when we’re done with you you’re goin’ over the side and down to the bottom, don’t you? We’ll wait around until your bubbles stop, and then we’re gone. Ain’t nobody ever gonna find you. You got it?”
To Markman’s own amazement, he began a helpless giggle. He held his chin down in an attempt to contain it, but the effort was futile. To his captor’s further consternation, the giggle broke into a solid laugh.
A flush of anger came over the man’s face. He turned to his amused partner. “What the hell’s goin’ on? How much of that crap did you give him?”
The other man’s smile vanished and he became defensive. “Just up to the one-and-a-half mark, like you said. That’s all I give him.”
“You imbecile! I said the one-half mark, not the one-and-a-half mark. Where’s the hypo?” The heavy set man stomped his way back toward the open hatchway where the needle had been prepared. He was stopped by his worried partner.
“I chucked it overboard. It was empty.”
“You asshole. You OD’d him. We’ll never get anything out of him now. Throw him the hell overboard and let’s get out of here. You can explain it to Inkman, okay?”
For Markman, the world was still a wonderful place. He felt wonderful. His senses were made of candy store colors and warm, passionate exhilaration. As the dejected assistant came to dispose of him, he experienced another surge of adrenaline, causing him to howl in laughter despite understanding what was about to happen. The assistant paused for a moment and began to chuckle himself.
“Do you believe it, Frank? I’m about to deep-six this guy, and he can’t stop laughin’. Ain’t it the damnedest thing you ever saw?”
The other man leaned against the raised bridge, shook his head and exhaled a morbid laugh. Except for Markman’s appearance, the three seemed more like Saturday night drinking buddies than murderers and their victim.
“Come on, get it over with.”
The smaller man advanced toward Markman and reached out one hand. He placed it lightly on the right shoulder and smirked as Markman continued to laugh with his head bowed.
Markman’s mind swam in pleasure. He sucked in his laughter enough to try speaking, but the words refused to come. The derringer remained poised and ready to fire, its angle greatly improved by the sitting position he had been rudely forced into.
At the touch of the killer’s hand, Markman squeezed off the first shot from the lower barrel of the tiny gun. The pop was muffled slightly but still very loud, like a good-sized firecracker. It echoed out over the water, bringing a paralyzing end to the eerie silence of the lingering storm. So intoxicated was Markman that he failed even to notice the stiff kick of the large caliber derringer break his ill-positioned wrist.
The bullet left a small, round, burned hole in the tape as it exited the pocket. It traveled only a few inches before striking its intended target just above the groin, slightly to the left of the navel. The shocked gunshot victim instantly became wide-eyed, silent, and bent over, like a man urgently needing to find a restroom. As shock overcame pain, he broke into a bl
oodcurdling howl and began dancing and jumping around the open deck, holding the badly bleeding wound with both hands. Markman, unable to control himself, again broke into exasperated laughter, tipping dangerously backward, kept in the boat only by the weighty resistance of the anchor taped to his legs.
The second man, stunned by what had happened, stood dazed with one hand holding to the upright of the aluminum ladder that led to the bridge. His mind refused to accept the fact that a shot had been fired. He scanned the open water thinking it must have come from another boat, but in a last final look of disbelief spotted the small hole in Markman’s silver binding. His wounded partner, screaming loudly, banged sideways against the boat’s port wall and fell headlong over the side, where he splashed and gurgled, and repeatedly lost his battle to stay afloat.
His companion gave him no consideration. Forgetting the Glock pistol on the table in the salon, he charged Markman with arms outstretched, diving and yelling with a hoarse cry that made Markman straighten up in a moment of sobriety. Instinctively, he clicked off his second shot.
The molten bullet found its mark just slightly off-center of the breastbone. It entered at the lower end and passed down through the heart while the two hundred and eighty-pound man was still airborne. The heavy body, its eyes frozen open in an empty expression of hatred, crashed to the deck and slid until it came to rest in a heap at Markman’s feet. The eerie silence of the night returned.
Markman’s fits of laughter had been so severe, and so prolonged, his breathing had become urgent and constricted. He sucked in gasps at the cool, damp air and struggled to his feet in a desperate attempt to open his lungs. He wheezed in short breaths and fought to stay conscious, his mind both drugged and sorely deprived of oxygen. The heavy anchor strapped to his feet helped buoy him. He jerked himself sideways in hopes of maneuvering around the limp body and away from the threat of the misty black water. The short bursts of breath were becoming longer, but the world was pitching and swaying badly. The fog was continuing to lift. Off the starboard side, far in the distance, the faint lights of Inkman’s yacht had become just visible.
Otto J. Fishkin stared with passionate interest at the long, molded canopy that covered the dull-chromed electronic table in front of him. Soft, yellow light tinted the opaque Plexiglas cover, helping to reveal the occasional movements of the semi-human form that lay within. Fishkin clutched his hands in breathless anticipation of the impending emergence of the long-awaited, earthborn Salantian Matriarch. Nervously, he squeezed his hands and unsuccessfully straightened his wrinkled suit jacket, unaware that it still carried within its lining the slave unit of a police proximity sensor. For him, the excitement was all-consuming.
The sound of the hatchway door opening momentarily distracted him from his ecstatic torment. A dripping man in a well-fitted black suit carrying a plain-looking black briefcase descended the winding, metal stairway to the large customized stateroom. He opened his mouth to offer greetings but was cut off by his exhilarated associate.
“Mr. Inkman, at last! It is a joyous occasion that brings us together again.”
“A new day, Mr. Fishkin, in a new world. Arrangements for our departure immediately following the emergence are complete. Has everything gone well here?”
“Everything is wonderful, Mr. Inkman. Agent Lee’s preparations have been completed. He is ready to leave. Is that the device?”
Inkman crossed the short distance of gray-carpeted floor to a small desk situated below a portal that looked out over the eastern shore. He placed the black briefcase on it and unsnapped the latches, as Fishkin came up beside him. He lifted the lid and stared with approval at his partner, gesturing toward the opened case as he spoke.
“It is much more than we customarily use. The purge must be as complete as possible.”
Fishkin stared excitedly down into the case’s interior at the large chunk of clay-like explosive within it. Something out of place quickly caught his eye. The countdown timer was illuminated and a liquid crystal “002” was displayed on its screen.
“Mr. Inkman, why is it counting down?”
Inkman’s head jerked down to verify his sometimes errant associate’s claim. The “002” had become a “001”. Inkman’s mouth shot open as his lips curled to form a fearful cry of, “No…,” but the word was cut off the moment it began.
Markman’s vision was again becoming tunneled. Consciousness was gradually abandoning him. He swayed back and forth in his silver suit of tightly-wound tape and tried in frustration to make sense of things. It seemed as though he were standing perfectly still while the world was pitching and spinning uncontrollably. The drizzle had stopped. The air was clearing. Lights from the distant shore were winking on and off.
Abruptly, the night lit up like day, adding to the confusing surrealism that held him captive. A deafening cracking and roaring sound like thunder boomed across the open water. To his left, a giant, orange ball of fire rose high in the night sky. Burning, flare-like fragments cascaded outward in every direction. They streaked like meteors to the water’s surface and burned there at scattered points across the horizon, their reflections reaching outward across the water.
Markman’s world was thrown rudely up and over. In his shrinking, circular view, the stars rained downward with an accelerating speed. Finally, with a bright flash of lightning and a sharp whack of pain on the back of the head, the tiny circle of stars went out altogether.
A blinding bright spot of light danced rudely over Markman’s face. Pain throbbed from the back of his head—badly enough to make his ears ring. Unfamiliar hands were pushing and pulling at him, and strange, grave-sounding voices were interrupting the mercy of sleep.
“This one’s still alive!”
“Where’s all the blood coming from?”
“It’s not a gunshot. He must’ve hit his head when he fell.”
“Beats bein’ dropped over the side....”
Visored faces peered into Markman’s dulled mind. They were cartoon characters, one on either side of a glaring light that stared into his being. The little Coast Guard symbols on their jackets and hats began to come alive and dance in a carefully choreographed salute.
“Let’s transfer him to the cutter and get him airlifted in.”
“Right, I’ll get the board.”
Once again, the world spun down and faded away into a merciful repose of nonparticipation, and absolute privacy, as Markman slept a long, dreamless sleep.
Chapter 29